


what we were

by kinpika



Series: invitis canibus venari [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Old Feelings, Old Friends, Post-DAO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25879162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: “I still called her ‘violent’.” Wrapped around a snicker of acknowledgement. Childhood’s past.“She kicked three knights and you said—”“That she was the most gentle horse I’d ever met.”They survived.
Relationships: Fergus Cousland/Anora Mac Tir
Series: invitis canibus venari [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152740
Kudos: 1





	what we were

When they meet again, it would be so bold as to assume they were almost perfect strangers.

And perhaps it would be best if they were. For Anora moves left, and Fergus moves a perfect right. Mirror image, reflective of years since past and long lost youth. When he had run through the halls, little shorter than Maric’s chest, and she had been leading the charge.

Clearing his throat, Fergus steps back. Extends an arm, with a passably apologetic smile, and encourages Anora first. Even as their roads diverged, she was always two steps ahead. A conscious decision on his behalf, when they move into a private room. Magically sealed, carefully examined.

Quiet.

“You survived after all.”

Anora’s voice is unshakable, but her hands move to sit in front, wringing her fingers that betrayed her manner. Part of him would comment on it, how she would then go to move her hair, where that one curl always managed to get loose, but he holds back.

“Aye, Ano—your majesty. We were… incredibly lucky. I believe my brother told you about what happened.”

Do they still stand? Sit? Fergus isn’t sure if he should fold his arms, or hide his hands at his back. It was different, when Cailan was still there. Easier lead to follow, with that certain amount of jovial attitude that lightened the mood. Remarkably like his father, in that sense, from what Fergus could remember. Except Maric’s presence was always around the corner, and Cailan’s disappeared without a trace.

She was still dressed in black. He should not think of the deceased king in such a way.

Finally, Anora sits. Practiced and graceful and pinched. Too stiff in the shoulders, hands still clasped. Like she was meeting with any other dignitary. Ah, so he should follow suit. One hand on the arm rest, politely resting. Slower movements. Will the nerves back.

Such stunned silence would be the joke of Denerim, before she. Smiles. Right hand, going to cover her teeth. A reminder of when one would-be squire commented she had an ugly one, right before she kicked him in the shin. Kind of comment that stuck, never leaving. Fergus shouldn’t have been so relieved to see it, as she tries to force her face back into a mask of neutrality, but her muscles don’t listen.

“I’m _so_ glad that you are here, Fergus.” And had he been anyone else, he might’ve commented on the slight gasp, hiccup, whatever other name some book might’ve called it. “I didn’t want to lose you as well.”

Leaning forward, it was bold of him to reach out for her hand. Something she doesn’t hesitate to offer. Calloused fingers, hers, his. Nothing that could be replaced. “I’m sorry for not being here. For the war, the Blight… for Cailan.”

“You couldn’t help it. It was _his_ orders, after all.”

Neither comment on the lingering feeling there. Sore spot, still too raw, even years after she had told him of her betrothal. The night he had left for Highever, determined on never returning to Denerim again. Was it bitterness? Fergus swallows it down.

But she interrupts, fingers tightening around his. “I’m sorry. For Oriana and Oren. For letting Howe live how long he did. I knew, and I did _nothing_.”

“Anora, I—”

“I let them use me, all for the sake of being a good daughter, and a good wife. That’s not who I am, Fergus.”

Anora Mac Tir did not cry. And it was not merely a matter of being poetic or sincere. Time did not change that, even if her eyes narrowed and her nose ran red. There would be no tears for those who passed. Nor any spared upon seeing Fergus returned. In a manner of speaking, it seemed to settle his heart, if only a little. Things had not changed. She was still the girl who unseated him in a joust. Still the woman who did her duty.

“You have always been a lot of things, Anora.” Careful with her name. There was a time when he could shout it with a laugh. “But I hate to say it: you’ve never been a good daughter. Or wife. Do you remember when you hitched your skirts up, got on horseback, and had the guard chase you through the forests until you were blistered and bruised?”

Another smile, one not covered. Broken and true. “What was that horse’s name?”

“Lady Violet. You wanted to name her ‘violent’, but your madam refused.” And it was Fergus’ turn to laugh. “Fitting, almost.”

“I still called her ‘violent’.” Wrapped around a snicker of acknowledgement. Childhood’s past.

“She kicked three knights and you said—”

“That she was the most gentle horse I’d ever met.”

At some point, their fingers had intertwined. Right in left. The skin where her wedding band might’ve once sat was lighter. Fergus hadn’t had the heart to remove his, not just yet. Nor the necklace Oren made, of string and material, wrapped around his arm, safe and warm under layers of fur.

“How did you remember all that?”

“It makes quite an impression on you.” He does not mean to turn their hands, so that he was able to draw his thumb over her skin. Linger on the space where a ring should’ve been. “You’ve always been good at that.”

Fergus’ voice trails off, until all that was left was the sound of a crackling fire. One he had not even noticed. Where to from here? It had been more than a year, since they had last seen each other. When Oriana was still alive, at his side, and he had loved her deeply and sweetly. Still did, in that he felt cold, when she was no longer there.

“Will you return to Highever?”

The question of a lifetime. Only three times had he set foot in the walls, since they had emerged victorious from the Blight. To bury wife and son. To settle affairs. To find the brooch that Anora had gifted, all those years ago. It was not the place he remembered. It would never be the same.

“No, not for now… if you’ll have me, allow me to stay in court.”

When Anora says ‘yes’, it is with more than just sincerity. Fergus finds it comforting, when it was likely wrong to assume it to be. That there was still some familiarity in what remained. They made quite the pair, he muses, dressed in black, dyed a deep orange from the flames. Silence where there had once been nonstop chatter. When they were simply nothing more than the fostered noble and the future queen.

Now they sat, widowed too soon and too violently. No pieces to be held, no game to play. Anora looks through him, sees into a part he does not wish to touch. Not yet. Still too raw and open, wounded further with the pitying looks that he received. How his brother does nothing more than apologise, _had he been stronger, had he been quicker_.

But he was young, and he had learned. It did not matter if he was stronger or quicker, a coup succeeded in strength, and Fergus would be daft to overlook how Howe’s plan worked just so. All for his guts to be spilled, but that was planning and crafting. Years worth, for the one moment to strike. Perfect in execution.

“You always used to get lost in thought. The tutors would rap you on the knuckles for it, remember?”

“‘Fergus Cousland, it will be a wonder if you ever manage to find ground enough to _rule_ one day’.” Voice pitching, mimicking the way that they had once talked. With a grin, right at the end. “I remember.”

“You haven’t changed.”

And, he breathes, thankfully, “neither have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> bg info: fergus was fostered at denerim alongside cailan to be a squire/knighthood for maric.


End file.
